


Canticle of Silence

by inbarati



Series: The Wayward Magister [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Prison, Violence, probably more later - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbarati/pseuds/inbarati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian goes home. As usual, nothing is as he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I remember that I promised not to make this too dark! I'mma try to keep that promise. This first chapter is very short because it was hard for me to write, and that will probably be the case for a bit, but this first chapter is also a prologue of sorts. You'll see how we got here soon. I just had the image of Dorian being brought to Minrathous in rags and chains and had to get rid of it. I hope all of you wonderful people who stuck by me for Inclined to do the Forbidden are still here! Thanks for your patience!

_ This is not the homecoming I imagined, _ Dorian thought as a sharp pebble nicked his cheek. The small trickle of blood tickled, but even had Dorian wanted to acknowledge it, his hands were bound. He kept his hands in his lap and his back straight. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.

 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about how easily the ability to hide his emotions had come back to him. The soldiers who arrested him had cited crimes of blasphemy and treason, but hadn’t given him any details. As the ragged wagon he’d been in the back of for the last three day rumbled slowly toward the Argent Spire Dorian was pelted by more rocks, most of them not sharp enough to cut. No rotten food, for which he was grateful. The street urchins looked thinner and more ragged than he remembered when he left nearly three years ago. More buildings were rubble strewn around the foundations, in defiance of the magic meant to keep them standing. Dorian sympathised.

 

He wonders, not for the first time, if his father will be waiting with the Black Divine. Whether he’s been sold into whatever fate awaits him in return for his father’s standing, or if the Venatori are strong enough in the Magisterium to influence his arrest. If it’s the latter, Halward will be in need of rescue before Adaar and Bull can possibly get to him. If it’s the former, he’ll have to rescue his  father from them. He silently curses himself as seven shades of foolish. Either way he’s risked everything for a man who would have been happier to have a drooling imbecile for a son than Dorian as he was. Dorian wonders if he’ll ever be able to make that make sense to anyone but himself. He wants to sigh dramatically, but that’s more than he can afford. He stares stoically into the middle distance as the crowd reluctantly parts for the cart he’s riding in.

 

Instead of entering the Spire’s courtyard, they take a side street. It’s barely wide enough for the wagon, and splinters break off as the sides scrape along the buildings on either side. Dorian craned his neck to see the sparkling silver that capped the Spire and the narrow strip of cloudless blue sky between it and the buildings on the other side. The guards grabbed the tattered remnants of his robes and dragged him into the basement. He wondered if he’d ever see the sky again.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is busted out of prison.

The cells under the Argent Spire are dark and dank. Under the stench of human and elven filth, he can smell blood.

 

He wishes he could say that after Corypheus he felt no fear. That finally, he was brave. It’s not true. He’s pants-wettingly terrified. Not that he lets it show. He slumps into the pile of straw that’s supposed to pass for a bed, idly braiding pieces together and just as idly unbraiding them. The straw is fresh and the cell he’s in had been scrubbed before they dumped him in it. Evidence of his father’s influence, perhaps. On the other hand, it might simply be the weight of the Pavus name. Not knowing why he was arrested, why he’s in this dungeon makes planning an escape difficult.If it’s treason, then all that awaits him is death. If his father is involved, he stands to lose more than his life. The former allows him time. He can wait for the opportune moment and break free. The latter... well. He doubts his father will stop at changing who he loves. He’ll take the memories. He’ll take Adaar and Bull and the will to leave. Pluck them right from Dorian’s mind like flowers from a field.

The mere idea of living the rest of his life without them, even in memory is untenable. He gets up to pace.

 

“A man as lovely as you should not have the kind of enemies that lead him to a place such as this,” a heavily accented voice comments. The shadows in the next cell are deep, and Dorian cannot see the speaker, but the accent is Antivan.

 

“I apologize if I disturbed you,” Dorian replies politely. “I had thought I was the only prisoner in this section.”

 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” the voice replies, and Dorian can hear the smirk in it. “It was harder to appreciate your loveliness when you were sitting down.”

 

Dorian laughs. “I always suspected my arse was my best feature,” he replies. “It’s nice to have it corroborated.”

 

He hears a chuckle before they are both silenced by the rattle and clang of the door opening at the end of the hall. Dorian, anxious to know his fate, presses his face to the bars to see down the hall. His stomach sinks even before he sees anyone, able to discern the particular cadence of his father’s footsteps. He slumps back into the straw.

 

His father has two retainers with him. The throw open the barred door and his father strides first into the room. Dorian doesn’t bother getting up.

 

“Insolent as always, I see.” Halward Pavus sneers down at him.

 

“You’ve had me thrown into a dungeon, Daddy dearest. I’m certain you didn’t persuade the Divine with my insolence. What favors did you promise him to get me here, under your control? I can give you a few pointers on being with a man, if you wish?” Dorian’s laughter is cut off when his father lifts him by the throat, slamming him against the bars.

 

“You will be obedient, or you will be dead, you little pissant.” Halward hisses, his breath reeking of olives and fish. Likely he had dined with the Divine before gracing Dorian with this visit.

 

“If the choice is still mine, I pick death,” Dorian wheezes unrepentantly. He’d rather die still himself.

 

His father releases him, and he lands badly, sprawled, with what feels like a bone-deep bruise on his hip. “I have other plans. I was hoping this would be a reunion, but I see you’re still untrainable. So you will be taught to heel in the same way as a dog."

 

The soldiers lift him to his feet and bind his hands to the bars. He hears tearing, and what’s left of his robes falls to the ground at his feet. His eyes close. He knows what’s coming. He’s endured it before. 

 

The whip that lands is different than the one he’s used to, however. His eyes open in shock at the tearing pain, and he grits his teeth to stifle the cry. He can see the owner of the voice, pressed against the bars as he is. He’s small even for an elf, and he meets eyes the color of sunlight through library windows. He’s lovely, beautiful enough that Dorian feels an unwelcome spike of shame at being seen like this.

 

Dorian is screaming by the time the beating stops, though he feels like it was far away. Like he was listening to his own screams coming from another room. His father steps closer, grabbing Dorian by the hair so he can’t turn his face away. “You will submit, or those wounds will be left to scar.”

 

The guard hangs the whip over a bar running vertically near Dorian’s head, and he can see it’s his father’s favorite, one he’s known since childhood, now with shiny pieces of metal attached to each tail. His father had spent time preparing this welcome for him. Dorian sways, held up by his tied hands and his father’s tight grip in his hair. 

 

“Whatever gets you to stop puffing your fetid breath into my face,” Dorian replies.

 

His father turns on his heel and storms out, the guards scurrying behind him. Dorian’s knees give out, and he’s left hanging by his wrists.

 

The hall doors clang shut and the elf scrambles out of the shadows, reaching through the bars to untie him. “I am sorry, friend. I did not know your father would-”

 

Dorian cuts him off with a harsh laugh. “It’s the way Tevinter mages are raised. I’m used to it. He’ll send healers when he thinks I’ve suffered enough to be pliable.”

 

“I do not think we should wait that long to be on our way,” the elf replies.

 

Dorian chokes out another laugh. Between his father’s hands and his own screaming, his throat feels like it’s on fire, and he coughs. It tastes like warm copper coins in his mouth, and he spits. “I’m open to ideas,” he chuckles, pained. 

 

The elf is stronger than he looks, and he helps lower Dorian carefully to the ground. “You ARE the only prisoner here, my friend.” He darts out of his cell and is in Dorian’s almost faster than Dorian can blink. Dorian sees him pocket a lockpick, and he shrugs a bag over his shoulder and takes out bandages and what looks like the ingredients for a poultice. He manhandles Dorian until he’s laying on his stomach, and attends to the wounds on his back as he speaks. “I am Zevran Aranai, an assassin formerly of the Antivan Crows.”

“Isn’t patching up wayward magisters outside your skill set?” Dorian asks, wincing as the elf presses poultice into a particularly deep wound.

“Ah, but caring for attractive men is something I have a great deal of practice with.” He carefully wraps Dorian’s wounds.

 

“If I tell you I’m taken, will you be disappointed?” Dorian smiles.

 

The elf sighs. “Deeply, but as I am as well, I shall recover in time.” He helps Dorian to his feet and grins at his smallclothes. “A lot of time, it seems.” He bows. “Leliana sent me. My friends call me Zev.”

 

“The pleasure is mine, Zev.” Dorian carefully tests his range of movement and finds that walking will be painful, but possible. “How did Leliana know I was here?”

 

Zev shrugs, packing things back into his bag. “I don’t think she felt it wise to commit such information to a letter. I am to deliver you to a dwarf in Kirkwall. Varric.” He smiles. “You will like him, but beware, he cheats at Wicked Grace.”

 

Dorian laughs stopping with a hiss when it pulls at the wounds on his back. “The only person who knows that better than I is Cullen. Varric is a shark, but he’s our shark.” Dorian hobbles toward the door and sighs. “Is there a plan that involves me being carried out on a litter? Is it too late to pick that one?”

 

Zevran laughs. “I am afraid not,” he replies, shrugging the bag back over his shoulder. “However, if my friends have succeeded, you won’t have to walk far. You have my word.” He drapes Dorian’s arm across his shoulders, and they make their way slowly toward the other cell. 

 

The bars on the window above their head melt as they’re making their way through the door, and a rope attached to some straps Dorian doesn’t know the purpose of flies through. “You have a mage,” Dorian observes.

 

“Two,” Zevran corrects him, “but one is back at camp. She is a healer, but at her age, kidnapping an Altus is a bit energetic. You will be healed by the time you find your bed tonight, though.” He’s strapping Dorian into the contraption of straps, and before Dorian is quite ready, he’s being lifted through the window. Zevran lifts himself by the ropes and settles himself carefully astride Dorian’s lap. He grins and kisses Dorian’s cheek.

 

Dorian is lowered into a cart being driven by a ginger dwarf and a huge, cloaked figure. There’s an elven girl waiting in the cart, helping to lower him in gently, and Zevran hops down, kissing her on the cheek as well. “Your timing is perfect as always, my white flower.”

 

The elven girl rolls her eyes. “It’s Daisy. You’ve known that for years.”

Zevran sighs, and they both help Dorian out of the contraption. “No poetry in her, but the heart wants what it wants.” He shrugs and Merrill shoves him. Zevran falls into the straw, laughing. Merrill helps Dorian lie down in the straw, and then draws a tarp over the three of them.

 

“Just until we’re out of the city,” she assures him. “Do you want to sleep? Wynne gave us potions in case you were hurt. Which you are. Or seem to be. Anyway. Sorry.”

  
Dorian chuckles, but he is in pain. “I think we’ll get out of the city more safely if I can be quiet,” he tells her, and she nods, smoothing back the wreck of his hair like he was a small child and feeding him a greenish potion and a sticky sweet red one. He’s asleep before the cart ever moves.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up with his arm around Daisy and his head on Zev’s lap and no idea of how he got there. It’s nearing dawn. “We are nearing camp, my friend,” Zevran speaks quietly, probably to preserve Daisy’s sleep.

“Are we not going to mention the fact that I’m snuggling your amatus?” Dorian asks.

Zevran laughs. “You both caught chill in the night. We have no blankets. I did not think it needed comment.”

“Is lack of jealousy a Southern quality that no one warned me of? You’re not the first person I’ve met outside of Tevinter that seemed to lack the quality.” Dorian doesn’t say Adaar’s name, but he’s thinking of him and kitchen stools.

“I had heard about your Qunari,” Zevran strokes Dorian’s hair.

It’s strange from someone he barely knows, but nice. Comforting. Dorian relaxes. “Adaar, and the Iron Bull.” Amatus and Carissmus.

“We do not know each other well, so I will understand if you do not wish to answer, but why did you leave them?” Zevran’s voice is low and intimate.

“I thought I could change my home,” Dorian sighs.

“Ah,” Zevran sighs and smooths Dorian’s hair back from his forehead. “Places never change until the people in them do, my friend. I am glad you have such good friends as to send me to rescue you.”

Dorian tilts his head back so he can look at Zevran when he smiles. “I am too. Thank you, in case I didn’t say it before.”

Zevran smiles. “It is a small thing, and Leliana is my friend as well. She has done the same for me.” Dorian turns to look at him fully, and Daisy shifts with him. Zevran’s smile grows softer when she pillows her head on Dorian’s chest, curling into his side. Dorian hasn’t been handled gently much since he returned to Tevinter. He’s surprised by how much he wants this affection. He tucks Daisy’s hair behind her ear. “You’re a good man,” Zevran observes. “It would be a terrible shame to let a bad place destroy you.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “How do you know I’m a good man? I could be a viper. Waiting to strike.”

“A viper doesn’t usually treat strangers who invade its personal space with such gentleness,” Zevran observes with a smirk.

That startles a laugh out of Dorian. “I suppose you’re right.” He settles his arm around Daisy. “So tell me about Leliana. When did you know her?”

“We met during the Blight. I had been hired to kill a Grey Warden she was traveling with. Fortunately, I failed.” He laughs. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You were hired to kill the Warden that stopped the Blight?” Dorian asks incredulously.

Zevran nods. “I still owe her a blood debt, wherever she is.”

“You don’t know?” Dorian is actually surprised. He’d thought the Warden had kept her companions closer, from the way Morrigan had spoken of them.

Zevran shakes his head. “She left us in Kirkwall. Even Alistair, who she loved. Trying to find a way to stop the Calling.”

“Morrigan mentioned,” Dorian replies. “I didn’t know she’d gone alone.”

“It was the first time since the Blight,” he shrugs. “I think she wanted Alistair to be safe.” The elf looks into the middle distance, a little haunted.

Dorian takes his hand and squeezes.

***

It’s nearly dawn when they reach camp. Dorian has been sleeping lightly on and off for several hours when the wagon stops. Daisy hops out and touches a pile of stones near the road and what Dorian had seen as an impassable tangle moments go fades, revealing a path to a clearing beyond. With tents and a roaring fire. They pull into the clearing and the cloaked giant clambers out of the wagon, making it shake. It pulls off the cloak, and Dorian sees it’s a golem. He peers curiously at it for several moments before it turns to him. “Pigeon,” it spits and stalks away, leaving Dorian bewildered.

“What just happened?” Dorians asks Zevran when the elf comes to help him out of the wagon a moment later.

He smiles. “That’s Shale. She can be a bit difficult, but she is part of our little family. She’ll warm up to you, my friend.”

“She?” Dorian asks. “I wasn’t aware golems had gender.”

Zevran looks like he’s remembering something very bleak when he replies, “Shale does.” Dorian wants to know more, but he decides it would be impolite to press.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, not even knowing what for, just wanting to offer something.

Zevran shakes his head. “It is not your fault, friend. Our adventures have taken us to many places. We know things, secrets we keep to keep our family safe.” His smile is sad, and Dorian takes his hand again. “Sometimes they are dark things.” He looks up at Dorian. “You understand.” Dorian just nods, and Zevran, who is indeed much stronger than he looks, lifts Dorian gently down from the wagon. “I will take you to my darling Wynne, and she will help you.”

“I thought you and Daisy....” Dorian starts but realizes his mouth has run away with him, and lets the sentence trail off. In a flash of awareness he realizes how confusing the relationships at Skyhold must have seemed from the outside, and laughs to himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Zevran smiles and helps him toward the largest tent. “Daisy and I are indeed,” he waggles his eyebrows lasciviously, letting Dorian know exactly what they are, and chuckles. “It is somewhat of a running joke with Wynne. You shall see.”

The tent flap is pinned open with a large Orlesian brooch, dangling with paste jewels. It’s one gaudy detail in an otherwise quite plain and utilitarian tent. Plain, dun sailcloth, with none of the niceties even the Inquisition tents had. No soft bedding, just straw on the floor. There’s a cot in one corner, and a wooden table with salves and tinctures, and a taller table big enough for a man. It looks a bit like Miranda’s surgery, a bit like the healers back in Minrathous.

An older woman comes through a flap in the rear of the tent with a basket heaped high with herbs and flowers. “Zevran,” the woman says, calmly assessing both of them. “Is this our friend?”

“Dorian of House Pavus,” Dorian interjects. “Dorian to my friends.”

She smiles. “And with such lovely manners. I am Wynne. I’m pleased to see you’re still in one piece.” she turns to Zevran, and the smile melts away. “You’re in one piece too, I see.”

“I keep myself so in the hope you will say yes someday, my darling Wynne,” Zevran replies. “Unfortunately, our friend is still in need of your services, or I would take the time to woo you further. Alas, I believe his need is greater even than my own.”

“He needs clothing as well, you scamp. Bringing the poor man here in his smallclothes,” she shakes her head at him. “You’re lucky I’m too old to switch you.”

Zevran grins. “Lucky? It is one of the great tragedies that a woman as lovely as you finds endless reasons not to.” He helps Dorian onto the table. “And I thought it would be unkind to stand on propriety when our friend is in so much pain.” He kisses Dorian’s cheek. “But as you insist, my dove, I will go get him some clothes, and return presently with them.” He pats Dorian’s hand and leaves.

Wynne rolls her eyes at his retreating back. “He’s incorrigible, but since he joined the Warden at least, he’s been a good man.” She eyes him critically and hands him a waterskin. “Drink this. You may feel a bit strange as the herbs take effect, but this will hurt less.” She moves behind him and he can feel her breath as she examines the wounds on his back without touching them. He drinks obediently from the skin, which tastes strongly of algae. He coughs, and chokes more down before she takes the skin from him. “Okay,” she says briskly. “Let me know when you start to feel light, like you could float. We’ll get you down on your stomach on the table, and it looks like we’re going to have to soak those bandages off. I’m a little concerned you might have an infection.”

Dorian just nods. He misses Miranda’s sarcasm. It made it easier to deal with pain, somehow. He traces the grain of the wood with the tips of his fingers, not knowing what to say. He feels exposed, the wounds of a beating from his father somehow more intimate than the wounds from fighting demons. He rubs at the marks from the electricity on his arm.

“Pride demon?” Wynne observes.

He nods again. “In a chamber under Crestwood. Hazards of closing rifts with the Inquisitor,” he smiles, but he can’t help but feel he’s coming off as more tired than charming. “I have a request,” he blurts, not knowing what he plans to say until he says it. “I’d like you to leave the scars.”

Wynne looks taken aback. “But why?” she gasps.

Dorian supposes that’s a natural reaction. He remembers Vivienne ordering Bull to cover his wounds when he tried to make them scar. “Because when something tries to destroy you and you survive, there should be something left behind to mark its passage,” he tells her. She’s still looking at him like she’s concerned for his sanity. “And so my father can never use my unmarked skin as leverage ever again,” he spits. He clamps down on the sudden burst of anger and breathes through it.

Wynne is still staring, but she looks resolute instead of horrified. “As you wish,” she tells him simply.  
***  
Krem startles when Sera drops from the balcony above where he’s sitting. “Going to Tevinter to find Dorian,” she says shortly. “You coming?”

“We can’t,” Krem replies carefully. He likes Sera, but she can be unpredictable even when she’s not in a mood, which she clearly is at this moment. “Don’t want to start a war between the Inquisition and Tevinter, right?”

He can see the anger flashing in her eyes, but it seems it’s not for him. “Then we don’t go as Inquisition. We go as Jennies.” She crosses her arms, impatient. “Are. You. Coming?” she enunciates.

Krem knows he should say no. Should talk to Bull or the Inquisitor or someone further up the chain of command. But he really, really doesn’t want to. “Yeah. Can I have a minute to suit up?”

She nods. “Say goodbye to your mum and dad. I’ll be in the stable.”

Krem doesn’t know why Sera picked now to decide Dorian needed them, but whether her whims had information or intuition behind them, she wasn’t usually wrong. Krem heads to the room Dorian had set up for his parents. The room they still lived in. The ambassador’s tailor, Ser Guillaume, and his father had become fast friends. Well, if two people who rarely spoke could be said to be friends. They were sitting on the balcony that ran outside the rooms. Usually reserved for diplomats and dignitaries, they were among the nicest rooms in Skyhold now that all the repairs were finished. Large with high ceilings and many windows to let in the light. Guillaume had moved in with Krem’s parents and they were using what used to be Guillaume’s room as a fitting room and shop. They had plenty of business now, with Corypheus gone. The Inquisition was becoming larger. Unwieldy if you asked Krem, but he was a grunt, so no one did.

“Dad, Ser Guillaume,” Krem greets the men. They smoke out on the balcony, sitting on stools they’ve dragged out from their shop.

His father just nods in response, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit with a smile that doesn’t touch his lips. Guillaume is more chatty. “Krem. Need a new doublet, son?”

Krem grins and shakes his head. “I have more than I can wear, I promise.” He clears his throat. “Going on a mission. Might be gone a while. Thought I’d let you folks know.”

His father gets up. “You’ll need gold and food. Your mother is inside.” He squeezes Krem’s shoulder, passing him to go into the shop.

Guillaume smiles and keeps smoking. “Your father is so proud of you, you know. You chose a good fight, and that you keep helping people even now.”

Krem can feel himself blushing. “That’s... good to know,” his voice gone gruff with embarrassment.

Guillaume chuckles. “Go see your mother. She misses you if you’re gone for five minutes.”

Krem does. His mother starts fussing as soon as he opens the door, asking if he’s hungry, how long he’ll be gone, remarking on how skinny he is. Krem just smiles and lets her fuss. He’s learned that it’s just how she shows affection, and trying to stop her is pointless anyway. He agrees to take sandwiches that she makes for him, shifting between fussing and putting them together so fast his head might spin if he wasn’t used to it. It feels like home, and he can’t help but think of Dorian, and how he might never have had this again without him.

“Aren’t you going to say anything? You’re turning into your father!” she teases him, ruffling his hair and putting a package of sandwiches, pastries, and cookies wrapped in a towel in front of him.

“Sorry, mum. I’m just gonna miss you,” he smiles at her, and she kisses his forehead.

“Long trip, this time, love?” she asks, propping her hip against the table and stroking his hair.

He decides not to tell her where he’s going, but he nods. “Favor I need to repay. It might take a while.” He doesn’t want her to worry.

“You do your best to stay safe, understand?” The curt tone of her voice tells him she’s worried anyway, but it’ll be worse if she knows. Tevinter doesn’t hold many good memories for any of them.

He grins cheekily at her. “Always do, mum.” He snakes a pastry when he leaves, and knows it worked when she just smiles at him indulgently.

“Tell your father and Guillaume to get in here and eat lunch before I decide they aren’t getting any, will you?” She hugs him, feeling small and fragile in his arms.

“Will do,” he assures her and kisses her hair. His father is waiting outside the door with Guillaume. “Mum says it’s lunchtime,” Krem tells him.

“Sure you can’t stay for a meal?” his father asks, pressing a purse into Krem’s hand because he already knows the answer.

“When I get back,” Krem says, wanting to hug his father too, but not sure if it’d be welcomed.

Guillaume seems to notice, and opens his arms, beckoning to Krem. Krem hugs him. “You’re a good son,” the tailor murmurs, too low for his father to hear.

Krem’s father hugs him too. There’s still some distance between them, but for the first time, Krem feels sure they can close it. “Thanks, dad. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Write, if you can’t. Your mother and I miss you when you’re gone. There’s enough money in there for pens and paper.” He kisses Krem’s cheek, the way fathers do when sons go to war, and Krem tries not to choke up.

“Will do,” Krem tells him, sketching a salute and heading down the stairs.

***

Sera is waiting in the stables, just as she said. “Your mum sent us food!” she exclaims, pleased. “They should let her run the kitchens. She’s better than the cranky old witch Josephine pays to cook.”

Krem shrugs. Complaining about the food at Skyhold is the Inquisition’s favorite sport, but he’s never been picky about that. “She’d have to take time off from telling me how skinny I am and trying to feed me every time I turned around,” he grins.

Sera wrinkles her nose and looks him up and down. “Well, she’s not wrong about that.”

Krem rolls his eyes. “Pot, Kettle, Black,” he chuckles.

“True, but I’m not wearing a dragon’s weight in armor,” she laughs, swinging lithely onto a horse.

It’s an old jibe, a conversation they’ve had many times before. He climbs more slowly onto his horse. “You tell Bull where we were going?”

“You tell your mom?” she retorts.

“He’ll be mad when we get back,” he reminds her unnecessarily.

“We’ll deal with it when we get back,” she says as they ride across the bridge.

Krem snorts. “Yeah, we will.”

“Varric’s got a friend who will take us from Highever to Kirkwall ten days from now,” and with that she gallops off, leaving Krem to catch up.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian awakens with a headache that quickly threatens to rival the very worst of his hangovers. His wounds have healed over, but his back still feels bruised. He almost tips the cot over trying to get out of it. His limbs feel heavier. He writes it off as being whatever algae flavored concoction Wynne had given him and stumbles across the tent to wash his face in the basin by the corner. His skin feels too tight. The water feels too cold against his it and his teeth start to chatter. The world swims in his vision and goes black.

  
***

  
Zevran finds their errant Altus on the ground. “Daisy!” he shouts to their tent. “Wynne and Shale are by the pond gathering mallow. Please tell Wynne our guest is having an emergency.” He lifts the mage and sets him gently on the cot, unfolding his limbs so he’s lying comfortably. He wets a cool cloth and places it on the other man’s head. The coolness stirs Dorian a bit, and he struggles to wake. Zevran smooths his hair. “Shhh. You’re safe, my friend.”

  
Daisy has always been fleet-footed, but Wynne is old enough that running is ill advised. Zevran rinses the cloth in cool water and wipes Dorian’s face, trying to be patient. He finds himself humming and stops abruptly. “I do not suppose old Antivan lullabies about the boogeyman snatching children who will not sleep is actually comforting,” he jokes to himself. “I hope you will give me credit for my intentions and not my poor taste in music, my friend,” he murmurs, rinsing the cloth again and folding it. He presses it against the back of Dorian's neck, and he stirs, the fever making him restless.

  
Wynne bustles in, dropping several sacks just inside the tent. She brushes the inside of her wrist against his forehead. “Fever,” she huffs. She looks at Zevran. “Would his own father poison him?” She looks over at her table where her notes lie as if she could read them at this distance. “I can’t think of another reason this isn’t healing.” Her lips press together in a thin line.

  
Zevran puts a hand on her shoulder, and he knows she’s afraid because she doesn’t scold him. “He’s not a circle mage, Wynne. He’s a warrior. He’s fought demons and won. Closed rifts. He’ll fight.”

  
Wynne gently touches the marks Pride left wrapped around Dorian’s arm. “You’re not wrong.”

  
Zevran smiles. “My dear Wynne, that was quite nearly a compliment.”

  
She snorts and shoves him. “Take Shale and gather as much feverfew as you can find. She knows where to find it.” She hums to herself and rinses the cloth, carefully wiping Dorian’s face. “Our friend has a difficult battle ahead. We’ll offer whatever aid we can.”

  
Zevran sees the wisdom in that and goes to find Shale. “Feverfew for the pigeon? Does the painted elf think I am a gardener?”

  
“I do not. But I do think we’re more likely to find a pigeon for you to stomp in the woods than sitting here.” He smiles.

  
Shale regards him with one sparkling garnet eye. “The painted elf makes a good, if irritating, point.”

  
Zevran laughs. “I would not lead you astray, my friend. If only because I promised Natia I would take care of all of you, and being squished like a pigeon would make that quite difficult, I imagine.”

  
“I find your sadness off-putting, painted elf,” Shale grumbles. “Let's go find a pigeon.”

  
Zevran follows her into the forest, choosing not to comment. It's cooler in the woods, wetter, and greener. He follows Shale, who lifts the low branches near the stream out of the way. Zev ducks under them.

  
Shale points to some flowers growing in a tuft at the base of a large tree. “Feverfew.” She stomps off, probably looking for pigeons.

  
Zevran works quickly but doesn’t rush. Wynne will already have some gathered or she’d have brought a sack back from her earlier trip. The sun is warm, spilling golden from the branches of the moss covered trees. There is a muffled “Ha!”in the distance, stomping and the sounds of wings. He smiles, but he does wish the Warden were with them. She always knew what to do. Had a plan, an idea. Resourceful, she was. Zevran would like her back, to drink ale and give orders. Then maybe he would feel less like he was failing her. “Shale!” he calls to the golem. “I am headed back to camp, but I will be stopping to pick more on the way. No need to rush.”

  
He does as he says, wandering from clump to clump of white flowers. Taking leaves and flowers, sometimes stopping to dig up the roots when it’s a single plant and he won’t damage a whole group of plants. He fills a sack with leaves and flowers, and another, smaller one with roots. He tries not to worry. About Natia or Dorian, or their friends back in Kirkwall. About the magisters that are almost certainly looking for them. Moving Dorian would be dangerous while he was still ill, so they must stay in the clearing until he was well enough. He chews lightly on his lower lip as he makes his way back to camp.

  
Wynne thanks him distantly when he drops off the sacks of feverfew, hovering over an alembic. Zev knows better than to interrupt her when she’s brewing potions, so he just ducks back out of the tent. He’s thinking about looking for Daisy when Shale lumbers back into the camp. She’s carrying a human in Tevinter robes, upside down, by his ankle.

  
“I’m here to help! I swear! Please don’t kill me!” The poor man swings as he struggles in Shale’s grip.

  
“I found it lurking by the path,” Shale sniffs. “What does the painted elf want me to do with it?”

  
“Let me bind his hands, just in case. Then you can put him down,” Zevran binds the man’s hands with twine. Not as comfortable as silk scarves, but it will do.

  
Shale drops the poor man into an ignominious heap at Zevran’s feet. “Unless you want me to stomp this one, I am going to find more pigeons.”

  
Zevran waves her off. “Go. I need to ask him some questions before I can decide whether you can stomp him or not, my sturdy friend.”

  
Shale doesn’t dignify him with a response, clumping back into the forest. Zevran helps their guest sit upright. “Exactly what is it you imagine we need help with, Magister?” The man is handsome, and Zevran finds himself hoping they won’t have to kill him. He sighs. His friends have had an effect on him. He’s not entirely sure he appreciates it.

  
“I’m only an Altus,” the man replies.

  
“Hm,” Zevran replies. “That does not answer my question.”

  
“I’m Rilienus. A friend of Dorian’s. I heard he was hurt.” His hair is long and disheveled, but the man makes no move to shake it out of his face.

  
“I am Zevran. That,” Zevran nods the way Shale left, “isn’t Dorian either.”

  
“But he’s here. Maevaris told me he’d be with you.”

  
He really does look appealingly earnest, but Dorian’s safety has to come first. “I do not know Maevaris, and I believe you are mistaken, friend.”

  
“But...” the man starts, but Zevran suddenly has a bad feeling. An itch between his shoulder blades warning him of danger.

  
He unsheathes a dagger. “I can either free you and you can leave, or I can call my friend. She does like to stomp things. It will make her very happy if you remain until she gets here.”

  
It’s too late, though. A group of mages, clearly following Rilienus’s trail, appear across the clearing. Zevran cuts the man’s bindings. “If you are truly Dorian’s friend, help us.” He puts his fingers between his lips and whistles loudly, bringing Wynne and Daisy out of the tents. He hopes Shale heard him. He unsheathes his other dagger and goes to meet the mages.

  
They aren’t interested in parley. He has to dodge fire several times, but he has practice. He cuts. Saddle straps and human ligaments, at the knee, just above the boots, rolling under a horse to evade the end of a staff. Daisy has two, writhing on the ground, and Zevran finishes them. He has to step back as they immediately rise up, but they attack their former compatriots. Zevran looks at Rilienus. Apparently, the man wasn’t lying about being Dorian’s friend. Zevran stabs the last mage in the throat, and then the battle is over, as suddenly as it began.

  
Daisy wraps her arm around his waist. “Are you injured?” She glances up and down at him, worried.

  
“I am unharmed, my white flower,” he smiles when she rolls her eyes at him. “But we need to move. Can you find Shale?”

  
Daisy nods. “She’ll be where the birds are, of course. I’ll be back, but make sure my books are packed properly if you get that far.” She runs into the forest, leaving him with her staff.

  
Rilienus approaches him carefully. “I really am here to help. I’m afraid I’ve bungled it. I didn’t know I was being followed.”

  
Zevran takes pity on him. “They’d have found us in any case. Your arrival was a warning we might not otherwise have gotten.” He puts Daisy's staff down and sighs. “Dorian is here but has fallen ill. Our healer used magic to heal him, but he is fevered.” He leads the human toward the tent where Dorian lies.

  
Wynne looks up from Dorian’s bedside. “Are you hurt?” she queries them.

  
Zevran shakes his head. “No, my darling Wynne. We are unharmed. But they will send more, next time.”

  
Wynne presses her lips into a thin line. “I suppose if we have no choice.” She doesn't say what they have no choice to do. They've all learned more discretion in their time with and without the Warden.

  
Rilienus is standing by the table, shocked into stillness. Wynne raises an eyebrow and Zevran remembers his manners. “This is Rilienus. A friend of Dorian’s.”

  
Wynne stands and moves to the table to shake his hand. “I am Wynne. I’ve been caring for your friend.”

  
“Halward beat him again,” Rilienus says. There’s no emotion in his face or in his voice.

  
Zevran realizes he must be in shock. He kicks Wynne’s stool out from under the table and helps Rilienus sit. “Do you know why it’s not healing?”

  
Rilienus shakes his head. “Sometimes he’d dip the whip in salt water. But I’ve never seen anything that would create those scars.”

  
Zevran remembers Dorian laughing when Zevran seemed shocked by his father’s brutality. “Your friend led me to believe this was normal. That young mages were punished this way.”

Rilienus shakes his head. “We’re disciplined, but Halward was always... harsh.” He swallows. “But never like this. Nothing that wouldn’t heal.” He looks away, covering his mouth.

  
Zevran has a silent conversation with Wynne, and then takes Rilienus’s arm and leads him outside. “We will take the best care of your friend that we can, but we must go before the friends of those that tracked you here miss them. If you truly wish to help, see if you can discover what is making him ill. The Inquisition will know how to find us. You can contact them.”

  
Rilienus looks at Zevran, then toward the tent. He nods. “Tell him...” He swallows. “Is it true he found love? No, don’t tell me. Don’t tell him I came. I was never here.” He straightens his back and starts off toward the road before Zevran can reply.


	5. Chapter 5

Zevran and Daisy pack up the camp. Zevran sends Shale after Oghren, who has been hunting since they returned with Dorian. Wynne looks after the mage in question. Daisy stops him from folding Wynne’s tent. “We’ll be more passable as traders if we cover the wagon,” she tells him, soft and serious. “Are you all right?”

Zevran can tell by the way she won’t look at him that she’s worried. “Not a scratch on me, my white flower. I would not willingly let anyone harm what is yours.” He smiles, insinuating an arm around her waist.

Daisy huffs, but leans into him and rests her head on his shoulder. “It was easier when I didn’t like you.”

“When you _pretended_ not to like me,” he wheedles.

She makes an exasperated noise and pushes him away, but then catches him and pulls him back, kissing him softly at the corner of him mouth. “I can’t say when exactly I started to like how impossible you are, _ma halani_.”

“I’m sure it was immediately,” Zevran grins at her, and she shoves him and laughs again.

“Help me cover the wagon,” she orders.

They stretch the tent over the lathes and tie it down. Daisy kisses the top of his head as he hands her the bedding for their patient. The rest of the bedding and supplies go in trunks under the wagon seat. Soon everything is packed. Zevran lifts Dorian from Wynne’s work table and settles him in the wagon. Oghren and Shale still haven’t returned. Zevran helps Wynne remove the table top and fix it across the back of the wagon. Daisy charms two stones, and leaves one at the campsite. They will have to catch up. Daisy takes the reins, and Zev sits with her. Wynne sits with Dorian in the back. Zevran looks at the map. “We should try to cross the river here,” he points to a ford a ways upstream from the bridge they crossed on their trip into Tevinter.

Wynne’s glance is sharp. “You’re worried.”

“I do not wish to underestimate our pursuit.” Zevran rubs the back of his neck, worried.

Daisy hands him the reins and takes the map, rolling it up. “We’ll take the ford, then. I’ll make sure we’re not followed. She ties a thong around the map and hangs it from a hook inside the wagon. “I’ll be ready if they catch up to us.”

Zevran pressed his lips together. It’s an old argument and he’s never won it, so he doesn’t speak. He looks to the road ahead, squinting against the dust in the air. He watches the sun get higher. Wynne and Daisy eat, then Wynne takes over driving. Zev sits with Dorian. He wipes the mage’s feverish face with a cool cloth, and is pleasant surprised when Dorian’s eyes blink open. “Zev?” he croaks, smacking his dry lips.

Zevran smiles, “Ah my friend, you’re awake.” He holds a waterskin to Dorian’s lips and lets the mage drink deeply.

Dorian coughs and winces when his back pulls. “Where are we?”

“We had to leave camp this morning. A young man came to camp looking for you. He was followed.” Zevran wipes Doran’s face with a wet cloth again, feeling how hot the fever has made his skin and burying a concerned frown.

“A young man?” Dorian seems confused.

“Rilienus,” Zevran answers. “He asked if you had found love, and then told me not to tell you he had come. A paramour?”

Dorian smiled sadly. “...skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes,” he breathes, seeing something far away.

“Dorian?” Zevran puts a hand on Dorian’s forehead, concerned.

He blinks slowly, coming back to the wagon. “Are you okay?” Dorian asks, frowning with concern, trying to turn, reaching for Zevran. 

Zevran pushes Dorian back into the bedding. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.” He strokes the hair away from Dorian’s forehead. “Be still, my friend. I am fine. You will be fine with rest. So rest.”

Dorian grunts. “Rest isn’t very interesting.”

“I can tell you the story of how I met the Warden?” Zevran offers, giving Dorian more water. “I do love to talk about myself,” he grins.

“I’d love to hear it,” Dorian sighs, taking Zevran’s hand and tucking it against his overheated cheek.

And so Xevran talks, telling his story, teasing Wynne by overembellishing. Daisy smiles softly at him when she isn’t meditating, and eventually Dorian dozes off and Zevran goes quiet.

“You miss her,” Wynne says, after Zevran has traded places with Daisy. 

Zevran snorts. “We all miss her.”

“Do you think Alistair has given Fenris any trouble?” Wynne squints against the setting sun.

Zev stares into the pink and orange sky for a long time before he speaks. “Do you think he’ll recover?”

“I’d not have left him if I thought staying would change anything,” Wynne had cared for him when the Warden left them in Kirkwall. There had been no circle for her to return to.

The ford is an easy one, at least, and Zevran closes his eyes briefly in gratitude. Andraste must be smiling on them, for once. They don’t bother setting up tents, sleeping in shifts next to Dorian. Zevran watches as he twitches and moans in feverish sleep, not able to sleep himself. It’s just before dawn and Daisy whistles quietly outside the wagon. Zevran crouches at the end of the wagon and watches the movement on the water. It’s Shale and Oghren, Shale dragging a raft with Oghren and a dressed Druffalo carcass. “Sorry it took us so long to catch up. Didn’t think we should waste the meat.” 

“Not to worry, friend. We’d have waited but we were followed.” Zevran squeezes the dwarf’s shoulder.

Oghren drags a bottle out of nowhere Zevran can see and drinks deeply. “So we should head back out?”

Zevran nods. “We can hang the meat and stretch the leather. The more we look like traders, the better.”  
“Should head to the Nevarran border like she said. My gut doesn’t like this,” Oghren belches, frowns and belches again.

Zevran hums in agreement. “South then.”

Daisy melts out of the shadows. “Lights on the road. Probably a patrol.”

“Good thing we didn’t unpack,” Oghren grunts. “Shale and I will drive.”

Zevran cuts two green boughs and binds them into a circle to stretch the druffalo hide on. He sits on an upturned crate at the end of the wagon, keeping an eye on the road behind them, lacing the hide into the stretcher as they rumble down the road. The patrol never catches up to them, though, and Dorian wakes again at dusk.

“We should cross into Nevarra tomorrow,” Zevran tells him.

He can see Dorian relax a little. He’s not been conscious most of the trip, but he probably knows what they have to fear better than any of them. “How long until we get where we’re going?” Dorian asks, looking tired.

“If we’re lucky it will take one more day to get to Nevarra, then a few more days to the Free Marches, once we’re there it’s three Days to Kirkwall.” Zevran can trace the route in his mind, he stared at the map for so long.

Dorian nods and closes his eyes. “Did I say thank you?”

Zevran shakes his head. “It’s not necessary. I owe Leiliana my life.”

Dorian squeezes his arm. “Thank you anyway.”

They ride south. Zevran feels better now that they’ve left the Imperial Highway. The smaller roads mean they’re less likely to encounter another patrol. He breathes easier, but he doesn’t stop watching the road. He can’t shake the feeling they’re being watched.

Daisy hops out of the wagon and walks beside it, picking herbs from the tangled grass, her feet bare among the tufts, and Zevran smiles softly to himself. “And I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters until they found me,” he tells her, quoting an old poem.

Daisy smiles at him, “Actually, I was in Kirkwall. You’re the one who found me. Well, found Hawke, really.”

“I prefer to think of it as we found each other, my white flower.” Zevran takes out a stone and begins to care for his daggers.

Daisy hops onto the back of the wagon and leans in to kiss him softly on the lips before hopping back down to cross to the other side of the road, plucking flowers and herbs. He sits motionless for a moment, holding the stone and dagger and watching her. After a moment he sighs and goes back to sharpening his knives.The afternoon is hot an Dorian’s fever continues unabated. Zevran fusses over him, worried. Wynne hands him a skin with some herbed water which he carefully feeds to their prisoner. “Five days,” Wynne tells him.

“Hmm?” Zevran looks up at her.

“We’ve been travelling five days, and neither you nor Oghren has made an obscene joke,” she clarifies.

“I’d think you’d be thanking the Maker,” Zevran smiles tiredly.

“You told a dirty joke about the archdemon just breaths before the Warden killed it,” she observes. “It’s concerning when you take anything at all this seriously.” She sniffs. “When Oghren does, it’s downright alarming.”

“Natia made us all braver,” Zevran admits quietly. Then he grins. “Perhaps if you let me weep into your bosoms...”

Wynne doesn’t let him finish, tossing the wet cloth they’ve been using to nurse Dorian at his face. Zevran just chuckles and rinses the cloth. “You’ve been doing a better job filling her shoes than I thought you would,” Wynne tells him.

“Just until she gets back,” Zevran assures both of them.

Wynne doesn’t press. “Of course.”  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ma halani - help me
> 
> the poem Zevran recites to Daisy is by Pablo Neruda.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning dawns bright and Dorian is awake. Zevran wipes his face and helps him sip the medicated water Wynne keeps prepared. “We should make it to Hunter Fell by nightfall,” Zevran smiles at his patient, helping him sit up. “I’m hoping there will be a raven from Leliana waiting for us there.”

“I know I’ll rest easier when we’re out of Tevinter’s reach.” Dorian chuckles darkly. “Did you say Rilienus came?”

Zevran nods. “A good thing too. Just ahead of your father’s men. They might have taken us by surprise if he hadn’t alerted us.”  
Dorian just nods. “He was never very stealthy.”

Zevran stays silent, encouraging Dorian to lie on his stomach so he can change the dressing on his back. 

There must be extra gentleness in his fingers, giving him away. “Rilienus told you about my father,” Dorian says, out of nowhere.

“You misled me when you said this was normal,” Zevran replies.

Dorian captures his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m used to pretending it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Your father should consider himself lucky that I no longer kill for pleasure,” Zevran replies darkly.

“I suppose you consider me foolish for the love I still bear him,” Dorian replies. He might be inclined to agree, especially now.

Zevran is shaking his head, however. “No. I had such an allegiance to the Crows once. We can try only to love more worthily in the future. I had help. You shall, too.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb your nest,” Dorian demurs. “I’m sure the Inquisitor and Bull will want me back.”

“I’m sure they will, and equally certain that if I let you get on a boat before you are well, Wynne will hang me from a wall like a bundle of prized herbs.” Zevran chuckles. “Besides, you haven’t met everyone yet. Oghren will ply you with drink and Fenris will likely hate you, but he hates us all. And perhaps you’ll be able to pry some words from our resident Grey Warden. Varric will be overjoyed to see you, as well.”

“I thought he’d go to Weisshaupt,” Dorian muses. “He missed Hawke a lot.”

“As do we all,” Zevran agrees. “He gave us a home when Natia left us.”

“Morrigan said she was looking to cure the Calling,” Dorian recalls.

Zevran nods. “She loved Alistair. The Calling came early to him, and he’s not been the same since.” He finishes wrapping Dorian’s wounds and Dorian sits up again. He hands Dorian the water skin. “Drink.”

Dorian is when Daisy slides nimbly into the back of the wagon. “Oh!” she sits next to Dorian with a small smile. “It looks like you’re feeling better. I’m so glad!”

“I am, thanks to you and Wynne and Zevran.” Dorian smiles back.  
Daisy tucks herself under his arm. “I hear we’re going to stay at an inn tonight. I bet we have you to thank for that.”

“Do we? No need to get fancy on my account,” Dorian demurs.

“You need a bath,” Wynne calls from her seat at the front of the wagon. “You’re healing slowly enough as it is, and not resting as you should. Letting you be dirty as well would not be conducive to healing you at all.”

“Besides,” Zevran notes,curling himself so he can lay with his head in Daisy’s lap in the cramped quarters of the back of the wagon, “I am hoping we will get a raven from Leliana. There might be help waiting for us in Cumberland.”

“The Pentaghasts?” Dorian asks. “Cassandra must have won them over.”

“She is the Divine now, no?” Zevran asks.

“She must be if they plan to help the likes of us,” Dorian smiles. He finds he misses her. He misses all of them. He misses Skyhold and the family he found there. His smile is erased by melancholy, as he realizes the even if he makes it back, Skyhold will never be the same. Is Jo still there? Dorian wonders. With Varric and Cassandra gone, and Solas since the last battle with Corypheus, the absences must be felt. Has Sera gone back to Orlais and the Jennies? Where is Bull? Did everyone leave Adaar alone? He’s suddenly restless with a desire to be back in Skyhold.

He finds himself playing with Daisy’s hair. “You’ll stay with us a while, won’t you?” she asks.

“We’ll have to see where I am needed,” Dorian replies. He will miss them, though they’ve only been his companions a few days.

“Hmph,” she replies, knowing she’s been put off. I’m going to write a letter to that Inquisitor of yours...” she’s interrupted by an arrow tearing through the wagon covers.

Dorian rolls, thrown from the wagon as one of the wheels splinters under them. His back screams in pain. Dorian bites his lip and lets himself slide into a ditch on the side of the road. He sees the unrelieved black of the Divine’s personal guards, even their mail painted to a dull, unrelieved black. Maybe the others can get away. They’re likely to be here to clean up the mess Dorian represents. The others will just be loose ends. “Over here!” he yells. “I’m the Pavus you are looking for!”

He must have gotten turned around. Something hits him from behind, and he goes down in what feels like slow motion. All he can think is that he must be hallucinating from the fever, either that or the fact that he can hear Sera screaming “THAT’LL GIVE YOU BEES!” means he’s had one too many blows to the head. Then everything goes soft and black.


	7. Chapter 7

The arrival of a small blonde elven woman standing on the back of her horse, screaming, throwing jars of bees and other stinging insects at the Tevinter soldiers who had come for Dorian is shocking, and for a moment everyone not fleeing just stops. One unlucky soldier’s hand goes slack, his weapon tipping from his hand. Zevran recovers first, and the man is dead before his weapon hits the ground. Another falls to his left, the wet choking sound tells Zevran he has an arrow in his throat without his needing to look. A human not much larger than Zevran himself, clad in heavy armor, sweeps his shield and knocks two more into the river. This far from the ford, the current is swift and deep. They might live, but they will be far downstream and likely injured. The others have fled. Zevran’s eyes sweep the field for Merrill, who is pale with shock, but whole, and already helping Wynne down from the wagon. Shale And Oghren step out of the woods and start arguing over the broken pieces of wheel. He turns to the last place he saw Dorian.

The blonde elf who had practically scared the life out of him is kneeling in the tall grass by the side of the road they’d been traveling on with Dorian’s head in her lap. “Stop dying, idiot flappy robed Vint idiot,” he hears her tell him, just as Wynne makes it to them.

“I’m a healer, dear. Let me take a look at him.” Wynne says in her grandmotherly way. Zev knows she thinks he’s teasing, but he does find Wynne intriguing. He always had, even when he was teasing her. There’s something winsome about her unwavering belief in goodness. _Wynnesome_ he thinks, smiling at his own joke and tucking it away to tease Wynne with later.

Wynne fusses over Dorian and eventually his eyes open. He immediately closes them again, groaning. “My head hurts,” he complains.

Zevran chuckles. “I suspect that is a consequence of getting hit with the hilt of a sword. I think they were supposed to take you alive.” He sighs, knowing no one will like what he has to say next. “Some of them fled, which means they will return. I do not think they will lack for reinforcements. We need to go. Now.” He scans the road. “Maybe on foot, into the woods.”

Wynne immediately objects, of course. “You cannot be serious,” Wynne a slight, sardonic emphasis on _not_ he would have missed if he didn’t know her so well. “We can spend an hour putting a new wheel on it!”

Zevran smiles, in spite of everything. He would miss their disagreements if Wynne were to abandon them. He mercilessly cuts off the thought. He will not add Nadia to that thought. Their leader hasn’t abandoned them. _She’s coming back,_ he tells himself fiercely, dragging himself back to the current problem. “We beat them, but the ones who ran will come back with an army. Too many to beat. Even with help.” He nods to the man in heavy armor, and to the elven woman. 

“I’m Krem,” the man says, offering his hand for Zevran to shake. “Sera,” he nods at the elven woman. “We’re Dorian’s friends.”

“You’re Buttercup!” Daisy blurts, suddenly. “Varric talked about you! I’m Daisy.”

Sera raises an eyebrow, “Well if Varric likes you, you can’t be all bad. Even if you are an elfy type.” She looks down at Dorian. “You’re an idiot and you never should have left. I’m fucked off at you, but you were nice enough to the little people that I got a letter when things went bad with your dad. I couldn’t not come. But I’m still pissed you fucking left us.”

“I’ll do my best to make it up to you,” Dorian replies with utter sincerity. He’d left her, and she’d still come to Tevinter to save his life. It’s better friendship than he’d earned. He reaches up and pushes her choppy, overlong bangs off her forehead. “I’ll start by cutting your hair,” he smiles at her. “I thought Varric was going to help you find someone after I left?”

“He did. But she was pride cookies and I hated her,” Sera sniffs disdainfully, turning her face away.

Dorian pats her hand, still twined in his hair. “I am sorry, soror mea. I will not be so foolish again. I promise.”

She sniffs again. “Fine, but if you had died I would never speak to you again. And stop speaking Tevinter at me.”

Dorian definitely does not point out that him being dead would likely ensure that anyway. “I will do my utmost to see that’s a decision you never have to make,” he tells her, as true as he can make it. Sincerity is important to Sera.

And it works. She looks at him again. “So what should we do?”

“Zevran is right, we need to move,” Dorian sits up, groaning and holding his head. “But I think we can keep the wagon if we don’t stop until we get to Hunter Fell. We can send for help if we beat them there.”

Zevran readily agrees. “If we must run and meet our own reinforcements on the way, it is still better than no reinforcements at all.” He stretches. 

“I could ask Bull to send the Chargers, too. He has to stay with the Inquisitor, but the Chargers go where he needs them to,” Krem offers.

Dorian starts to nod his agreement and instantly regrets it, wincing. “I’m afraid we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Once we’re closer to Kirkwall, we have some favors we can trade in with the local farmers. We’ve been helping them with bandits and slavers for years now. Most will agree to send a raven if they see anything suspicious, at least,” Daisy adds.

Zevran helps Dorian to his feet, and they slowly make their way back to the wagon. Shale and Oghren have already cut a thick round from a huge fallen green tree. Oghren is chiseling out the middle, and Shale is breaking the old wheel, salvaging the metal parts. “The black ones broke my crystal. They are worse than pigeons!” she complains, breaking another spoke as they approach.

“We have others at home, Shale. And who knows, maybe Leliana will have sent our pay. I saw you eyeing that amethyst in lowtown,” he tries to tease her into a better mood, knowing the next few days are unlikely to please her much.

It works. Shale makes a sound, like a hum, but higher, like singing crystal. “It was very purple.”

She sounds pleased and Zevran smiles. “So let’s just get home in one piece, yes?”

“The painted elf makes sense for once,” she replies archly. 

Zevran grins at her. “I’m growing on you.”

“Like lichen. Makes me itch,” Shale says, but she’s laughing. Probably at her own joke, but laughing outright. Natia had been trying for years to get their sour companion to laugh. This is the first time he’s ever seen it happen. It’s a rough sound, a gravelly hehehe, and Zevran feels more encouraged. Maybe he’s isn’t doing _everything_ wrong.

He sets Dorian down where he can rest against a tree. “How long will it take you to fix the wheel?”

“I’m working as fast as I can. Wood’s not exactly my medium,” Oghren grumbles.

“I’m not trying to rush you, my friend. It is better to have a sturdy wheel. I need to make a plan, and it would be helpful to have a timetable,” Zevran replies.

“Half an hour?” Oghren tells him. “Provided Shale quits griping and helps,” he adds, snickering when she gives him a look that would mean death if he had feathers.

“I detached all the metal parts like it asked. If it wants a punch to the head, it should just say so,” Shale fumes.

Oghren grins. “Look like I’m growing on you too.”  
“Like a pile of pigeon shit,” Shale spits, disgusted. 

Zevran makes an attempt to derail the impending argument. “Thank you for your help, Shale.”

And, by the love of Andraste, somehow it works. Her gaze is softer when she looks at him. “The painted elf is family. As is the other elf. And the Grey Warden and the other Grey Warden. Even the smelly dwarf,” she overrides Oghren’s grumbled objection and continues, “If the time since I lost my control rod has taught me anything it is that we are stronger as a unit.”

Zevran smiles. It’s not their best day, but he really can count on his family to pull together in a pinch. Wynne and Daisy come up from the river having refilled the waterskins. Wynne fusses over Dorian, feeding him sips of water, and Daisy insinuates herself under his arm. He kisses her temple. “How are you, my love?”

“Fine,” Daisy says. “I don’t think Sera likes me much. She and Krem are down by the river, catching some fish. It’ll be the last fresh food for a while.”

“I’m sure she’s just worried for her friend,” Zevran strokes her hair. She’s wearing a cloth headband with beads sewn on that Zevran remembers Isabella giving her last time she’d been in port. He tucks a stray hair behind it. 

Daisy gives him a gentle squeeze and moves to help Wynne with Dorian. Zevran turns back to help Oghren and Shale with the wheel if he can. They just about have it on when Sera and Krem run up the hill with fish, freshly grill and still on their spits. “We found two of the arsehole brigade hiding down the bank. They got a raven.” She hands him the missive.

It just says “Before dawn. Light a fire.”

“They were probably going to follow us and lead the reinforcements right to us,” Krem explains. “Sera and I should ride ahead, go to a couple of different villages, send ravens. They can’t intercept them all, and while they’re chasing us, you should cross the Nevarran border as fast as you can.” 

“Leaving so soon, Lautus?” Dorian asks, without opening his eyes. 

Krem takes a knee and Dorian’s hand. “Someone’s gotta get you out of trouble,” he smiles and ruffles Dorian’s hair with his free hand. 

Dorian gives a pained chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

“We’ll meet you in Hunter’s Fell,” Sera says. “Before the creepy black armor types get there.”

They eat quickly, and no one sheathes their weapons. “Hunter’s Fell,” Zevran reminds everyone as they clean up. Sera and Krem ride off. Daisy keeps a dagger on her lap and her staff behind her on the seat next to Shale. Oghren sits across from Zevran at the far end of the wagon, watching their rear. Wynne alternately cares for Dorian and dozes near him between them. The ride is rough, bumpier on their makeshift wheel, and too fast to be careful of the ruts. Zevran feels a little sick but doesn’t mention it. Speed is of the essence. The day begins to wane and night falls and they don’t stop. Oghren sleeps, and then Zevran does, as roughly as the road under them. The moon rises over the mountains that mark the border, and Zevran hopes Andraste will continue to smile on them, and they will be more fortunate once they cross the border.

**Author's Note:**

> The Old Gods will call to you,  
> From their ancient prisons they will sing.  
> Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,   
> On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,   
> The First of My children, lost to night.
> 
> —Canticle of Silence 3:6


End file.
